The tears of the goddess – Part 2
The Oasis
The mask of the Goddess, huge and enigmatic, gazed at the visitors with its blank eyes. The over-heated hill shimmered, castle of the dead with a thousand rooms, imperishable mirage of the lost grandeur of the mortals.
At the foot of the hill, the small escort dismounted. The remains of Oba Ragor lay on a simple cart, taken from the palace's gardener.
The guards, tall figures wrapped in kaftans the color of mourning, lifted the coffin. The prince himself, Oba-Indu Uku, assisted the men, letting his wife take care of their son and follow the mortuary convoy.
The guards struggled to get the body to its final resting place. At each curve in the paved slope, the believers were observing a station, renewing their prayers to the goddess. The old guard, the faithful ones, the very last that the impious whispers of the Red Eye had not perverted and that the old Oba, in his devout dementia, had not revoked.
The line of the Barcids were to join the heroes' abode at the top of the sacred Tell of the Goddess Elder. The tomb was to be sealed with mortar made of ashes from the plain and water from the well of souls. It had been like this for generations.
Prince Uku saw himself again as a crying little boy in his grandfather's funeral procession. At the time, there had been no secret funerals: The crowd had gathered in large numbers and had paid its respects all along the funeral route. Since then, the Order of the Red Eye had appeared, infiltrated within the nomadic columns from Khand. It had implanted, little by little, using lies, corruption, intimidation or threats. Now the Order controlled entire tribes, oppressing the Goddess's followers. The late king had been a just monarch, before falling under the thumb of these sectarians.
At the death of Oba Ragor, the Crown Prince had not hesitated: he had assembled the guards that still could be trusted and had kidnapped his own father's remains. Only the Goddess knew what the miscreants of the Red Eye had been guilty of, impious embalmers and passionate about dark magics. Prolonging his days in unworthy dependence, they had kept the sick sovereign in a counterfeit life, in defiance of the appeals of the three-faced Goddess.
Now the dead body of the sovereign, escaped from the clutches of the necromancers, came back to the Mother-Goddess. Oba-Indu Uku, his son, was relieved, despite his pain.
Before the last climb, he looked at his son and his spouse. The little boy cried in spite of his courage, holding tightly the hand of his mother, who sent a shy smile of encouragement to her husband.
The men gasped as they hoisted their load on their shoulders. Dignified and severe, the nomads reached the well of souls.
The crypt of the Barcids was opened. The face of the Goddess, sculpted far above, seemed to shed tears of shadow under the bronze sun. The living assembled and meditated before the door, in a deep silence.
Then a rumble arose around them: a long, syncopated wail, a hideous gurgling interspersed with hysterical stridulations.
Their temples suddenly aching with frenzied beating, the men circled around the royal family, drawing the sword with a trembling hand.
Nightmare creatures emerged from the surrounding vaults. A horde of hyenas slipped between the graves, pushed by an imposing figure in a long mantis. Enormous, deformed, they emitted an unbearable stench.
The dignitary of the accursed order advanced, staff forward, his face puffed up with pride. A lidless red eye blazed against its dark livery.
– "Give us back the king and bow down to his will," he ordered in an otherworldly voice. "For this day is the day of his rebirth under the gaze of the Almighty Eye! "
– "You stand on the Tell of the Goddess Implore her forgiveness for your ungodly machinations!" Prince Inku ordered.
– "Oba Ragor has dedicated his life to the truth. In the wake of his renewal, you would claim to deprive him of the fruits of his fidelity to the Great Eye? Death to the unbelievers! "
– "You lackey of Lies!"
In response, the sectarian's ruddy face grimaced a carnivorous smile at the prince. An obese hyena, with a mouth foaming with pus, rushed towards the designated victim, limping on its twisted legs.
A guard comes forth, striking a furious blow with his saber on the repulsive face.
The monster grabbed the weapon and the arm. Then the head. The it carried the rest hobbling along, and dragged the corpse behind a grave to devour it.
The defenders froze in horror. The princess and her son hid themselves, embracing each other near the coffin, their eyes bulging and their limbs trembling.
– "Back, you henchmen of carrion!"
A cacophonous outburst of obscene sneers greeted the poor attempt to summon some courage.
The last two guards who were still able to do so sided with the prince and took up the oath, stiffening their will.
The master of the hounds raised his staff: the beasts charged.
The prince plunged under his assailant's mouth, parrying the attack with his shield and piercing the throat with a clever feint.
Another hyena, drunk with the smell of blood, threw itself on the captain of the guards, missed him with its fangs and collapsed on him. Dripping with the slain monster's blood, the captain staggered to his feet. In defiance of the grotesque monstrosities that were already staring enviously at the foul-smelling guts, he raised his sword and shouted: "For the honor of Oba Inku!"
The evil smile broadened on the lips of the master of the pack. So the officer recognized the prince as his king? For the honor? So be it! An honorable last stand, then! They had earned it!
The sectarian turned his cruel gaze on the new King and raised an accusing finger to him.
The attack grew fierce, again and again. The guard was eventually overwhelmed, and the new Oba and his brave Obaya perished, weapons in hand.
Then the cultist of the Eye scattered the hyenas and opened the coffin. Now he was about to start the ritual...
– "But… where is the child?" he shouted.
Far away on the plain, hidden in the shadows of the ashen ravines, an old man was quickly moving away, a heavy bundle wrapped in a cloak on his arm.
Thorongil woke up with a start. he would not be caught again, sleeping on a grave...
This is what happened when a tragedy was evoked in the middle of a cemetery. We wouldn't take him there again, sleeping on a grave...
The rider looked for the old man... but Attas Incânus had already departed.
.oOo.
Ochre ergs barred the horizon of the barren expanses, strewn with broken rocks and flooded with light.
Suddenly the burning silence gave way to life. A breach almost appeared under Farasi's feet. A deep gorge meandered there, a setting of emerald and cool darkness: the hidden Wadi, the oasis of Khenara, which the nomads also called the Smile of the Goddess, because of the shape of the lips that its canyon took.
The rider opened the visor of his scarf to observe the chasm and find a path. There were no guards at the top: the desert was enough to keep the strangers at bay. Without even a pressure from its rider's legs, the horse instinctively discovered the path and began the descent on the side of the rock, under the suspicious gaze of a fennec with large ears.
In the shadow of the cliffs, spared by the storms of the desert, rose a murmur of renewal. Majestic date palms raised their crowns above the fruit trees. Terracotta houses emerged here and there from the clumps of acacia and tamarisk trees, their roots deep into the silt of the canyon. Laurel bushes, studded with bright pinks and whites, bordered the stream that sang its soothing melody. The precious tears of the Goddess meandered between fallen rocks, mills and gardens, leaping from pools to canals.
The scent of mint and lemon trees greeted the traveller under the beguiling twig of rollers and hoopoes. A stone arch, carved by the centuries, spanned the path. The rider dismounted: only conquerors passed through city gates on horseback.
He ventured into the meanders of the village, from alleys to culverts. The sunlight, filtered by the foliage, danced on the water in graceful volutes. The merchants gauged without restraint this vagabond with an air of a lord, with his outfit stained with the desert ashes, wondering about hidden riches of an exiled Oloye. Young women, after the ritual bath, gave him kohl-hemmed glances. The warriors saluted with a grave air, their hands on their breasts, murmuring appraisals as the stallion passed.
Further down the valley, the gardens, protected by thorny trees, gave way to the pastures of goats and camels. A few tents with colorful patterns stood there, around a large building bristling with red pinnacles and leaning against the cliff. The heart of the sanctuary.
.oOo.
The wadi flowed softly, a vital vein winding through the aridity. On its banks, a group of peasants were busy, trying to prepare the land for a new barley harvest. Their faces, chiseled by the sun, reflected fatalism more than fatigue.
Taïnyota and the peasants handled the spade, recut the furrows carrying the precious water, irrigating each plot of sandy land. The knight, accustomed to the battlefield, discovered a new form of combat: that against the barren land and the unforgiving climate.
Usually, the horsemen, the lords of these arid lands, considered themselves too much above the earth. But Taïnyota had to pay for the food and care he received, and the peasants had not asked for any explanation.
As the sun set below the horizon, the field came to life under their laborious hands. The barley seeds were planted, the valves opened, the jerboas chased.
After hours of toiling side by side, the peasants thanked the stranger:
– "May you come back for the harvest, Ô knight," said an old woman, sharing her piece of fresh bread.
She seemed very poor, but it would have been indecent to refuse. So Taïnyota agreed, sharing in exchange the handful of olives gleaned from the bottom of a jar at the morning market.
.oOo.
In the hottest hours, nomads and peasants withdrew to the shelter of reeds and tents.
Then Taïnyota visited Farasi, renewed his water, and nursed his companion. In the shade of the palm trees, he used to spread out his hammock and begin dreaming.
Stretched out under the foliage of a lost valley, he contemplated a radiant face lowering its star-strewn gaze upon him. The young woman spoke to him softly. The young man drank the words of his muse, who stroked his hair with the tenderness of a mother.
– "Your eyes shine with the flames of love and honor, Dúnadan, vivid and fleeting as only the heart of a mortal can conceive them. Time will tell if these fires will be able to endure, the voice whispered.
The same question, always, came back in the exile's eyes.
And the same answer nourished the smitten heart with doubt:
– "I contemplate you as under the Light of the Two Trees of Valinor: with affection for the child you always seem to me, and the emotion of a woman for the early homage of your valour."
Then the bittersweet memory, with an encouraging smile on her lips, left the Dúnadan. Taïnyota returned to his companions for the day, observing, listening, and learning.
.oOo.
Bôzisha-Dar, capital city of the Obas of Bôzisha-Mîraz
The sun had sunk behind the Sea of Dunes. The moon barely pointed its thin white horn.
The city was illuminated with a soft silvery glow. The narrow alleys meandered towards the sacred hill, strewn with gold dust by the lanterns hanging from the ornate balconies. The facades of the caravanserais displayed their splendour. The towers of the Sanctuary of the Young Goddess stood proudly, majestic under the starry sky, overlooking the hill of eternal youth, in the rustle of the breeze on the palm grove.
The public squares purred with the murmur of nocturnal conversations, in the bewitching scent of jasmine, the breath of the Goddess. Pilgrims and merchants whispered in the cool around a samovar, on the terraces of inns or at the threshold of tents pitched in gardens. Discussions were going well.
For the Elder of all tribes had returned. After years of wandering, he had reappeared, older and more prolific than ever, with fabulous tales and strange news on his lips. And he had said it: the prince and his wife were dead!
The nomads wondered, the faithful worried, the merchants listened. The followers of the Red Eye, contrary to their habits, observed a cautious reserve. It was said that the remains of the old King, who were disputed by the Eye and the Sanctuary of the Goddess, had disappeared under murky circumstances. Scholars and presumptuous confronted hazardous hypotheses and gloomy prognostications. Had the advent of the Eye happened? Had it not been announced? What had become of the little prince? Was it not necessary now to recall the daughter of the Old King from exile? What to think of the exactions of the Variags? Who was going to rule the sanctuary now?
But Incânus had disappeared again. His eagle eye had judged the time ripe, and he had set off again.
His departure had plunged the city of the Young Goddess into waiting. Like a pregnant woman, she listened to her pulse, she examined her body, she scrutinized her gestation, almost holding her breath, attentive to the slightest sign of fate.
.oOo.
And the sign had come.
At the door of the setting sun, a rumour had germinated:
The procession of a Prince had asked for passage.
His retinue was numerous and magnificently harnessed.
And his presence would renew the city.
A senseless, irrational hope spread through the alleys. Word of mouth set the feverish city ablaze. The streets and squares were filled with an excited crowd.
At last, at the rising of the moon, they were seen!
At the head of the procession, the Elder of all tribes paced the pavement, casting stern glances. The people moved aside to let him pass. The solemn air of the old man augured wonders...
Children followed him, scattering petals of colorful flowers. Heralds of the Bellakar, bedecked with silk and gold, marched behind them, stopping in each square to call with their silver horns.
Then appeared Oba-Inda Luuma, the princess who had fallen into disgrace!
Her appearance raised a clamor. Returning from her exile, she climbed the sacred hill to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. The people, gathered in large numbers, gathered to catch a glimpse of the woman who now embodied hope and renewal.
Thus, what had been said was true: Prince Oba-Indu was dead. The alleys filled with tears for this loss, and with cries of joy and songs of praise for the princess who, dressed in her immaculate tunic, rode with the grace of the princes of her lineage, inhabited by the gravity of the moment. On her forehead glittered three pearls, adornment in honor of the Goddess.
To top it all off, the princess carried a child before her: Oba-Wu-Indu Dayan, grandson of the Old King Oba Ragor. The Elder of all tribes had gone to rescue the heir of the Barcids from the very clutches of death! In that terrible hour when the dynasty of their kings had seemed to sink, the princess returned to them, protector of the future of the line.
At their side, in splendid array, rode Kibir, the Oloye of the Bellakar, dressed like a pilgrim, of noble presence. After him advanced a company of the guards of his country, armed for war.
The Goddess seemed to smile at the destinies of this miraculous caravan.
The families murmured prayers fervently, measuring the symbol and the magnitude of Prince Kibir's homage through this pilgrimage.
The procession, carried by popular jubilation, reached the threshold of the sanctuary.
Partisans of the Eye were massed in front of the gate, as if to hinder the pilgrims. Grave, with evil looks and full of gall, the dignitaries observed events.
When the Elder of all tribes appeared, he raised his walking staff, the air seemed to be freed, the light to be quickened, as if a cloak of darkness were receding. The dark robes of the Eye buckled.
A clamour arose in the crowd and their pot-bellied bellies, their richly decorated dresses, their precious silk caps had to give way. Their influence, however strong, had never allowed them to invest the sanctuary and turn it to the goals of the Eye, despite the support of the Old King. Now the popular jubilation demonstrated how much this hold was based on fear.
Disciplined and grave in their backhand, they retired in silence, casting glances at the crowd. There were a few faithful there. The Eye was never at rest: they would come back. Their cohort descended the hill in oppressive silence, and the terrible followers joined the tents of the nomadic Variags.
At the top of the Tell of the Young Goddess, Oba-Inda Luuma dismantled her mare. A respectful silence settled, underlined only by the light breath of the Goddess. The princess welcomed her nephew in her arms and turned to the crowd. Introducing Oba-Wu-Indu Dayan, she raised her arm in blessing.
.oOo.
Oasis of Khenara
The woman often visited Tainyota's dreams.
– "Travel through the wide world, that is still young for you! Who knows, maybe you'll pick some unknown flowers by the side of your road? If it weren't for the shadow that is once again spreading in Middle-earth, I would envy you.
Taïnyota woke up to the harmonious song of the sparrows in the palm grove.
The face of perfect beauty, half grave and half mocking, whispered to him again, in his half-sleep:
– "May the constancy of your commitment and your bravery enlighten us as to the feelings we will have for each other. Let time, your valour and my faith !"
A loud and clear call resounded in the still pale sky: the servants of the Goddess were calling to the ablutions of the Morning.
Taïnyota graciously complied with this healthy custom: nothing beats fresh water when you wake up to face the sweltering heat of a day's work!
.oOo.
The sun darted its fire on the back of Taïnyota's neck, leaning on an irrigation channel. He was eagerly hammering support poles. The white and blue ceramic pipes, anchored to the hillside, in the crumbly rock, required permanent maintenance. The knight, sweating, got up, hailing his fellow-workers:
– "This section requires hoisting a support piece, which we could seal here... and there...! "
The foreman, with a grave air, nodded his turban, but the workmen cried out:
– "The Goddess repay thee thy blessings, O stranger who brings us thy knowledge and thy help! But what you ask for is impossible! We cannot hoist a plank so high, with the sole strength of our arms, on the side of a cliff!
– "You speak the truth," replied Taïnyota, thoughtfully, "but there must be another way."
A few hours later, the team dragged a bamboo beam to the top of the cliff, going around the end of the valley. Farasi had done most of the work and now it was he also who operated the hoist lowering the support piece towards the workers stowed on the side of the rock.
When the pipe was restored, the team gathered around a vast copper tray, overflowing with lentils and vegetables, digging from the dish with three fingers, sharing the joy of rest after the task accomplished together.
– "I don't know where you get this knowledge of architecture from, O Tainyota, but we thank you for your help!"
The foreman added, measuring his words and in a more cautious tone:
– "Yet I would like to understand – The Goddess forgives me if I offend the stranger in you who is welcomed under our roof! All of us here know and respect the noble art of dressage and riding. Therefore we do not understand how so proud a steed and such a rider should stoop to such low tasks!"
The knight, a little taken aback by the question, saw the faces of all his companions turn towards him. He took the time to swallow and wipe his fingers on his bread cake, as he had seen the table do.
– "What is the use of defending one's family and tribe, if one fails to maintain or beautify the oasis where they live?"
This naïve and charming conception was received with indulgence, but it clashed with the values of the guests: the nobility, under the indigo skies of the Harad, measured itself by courage in the saddle; wealth, to the size of the herds; fame, to the victories of the tribe's stable; magnanimity only, to the works that adorned the oasis. Taïnyota promised himself more restraint in the future.
But a benevolent smile floated on the wrinkled and pensive face of the foreman. He concluded with a fatalistic air, pouring hot tea in the round:
– "It is not necessary to understand all the extravagances of the world to appreciate its kindnesses! Blessed be the Goddess for having sent you to us, with your strange ideas and your generosity! "
.oOo.
Taïnyota woke up with a start. Something was wrong.
He sat up on his mat of palms. His companions of fortune were resting in the warm half-light of the silent tent. Dawn broke on an unusual silence: the fennecs did not yell on the banks of the stream. The egrets did not snap their beaks for their morning display. The sparrows did not chirp. No noise. Not even the call to prayers to the Goddess...
That's what was wrong...
In haste, Taïnyota dressed himself, put on his harness and went out. He took a few steps on the deserted esplanade, smelling the heavy air. Heavy with an expectation.
No one in front of the sanctuary. No one at the sacred pool. He pushed on to the horse paddock. Farasi had disappeared!
The remaining horses had gathered in a corner, huddled around the old mare, and all were looking in the same direction, with their ears pointed out and their eyes nervous.
Suddenly, a whirlwind of dust announced the arrival of the raiders. They rode to the camp, howling like demons, their sabers glittering in the rising sun. The horsemen swept in like the storm of the desert: fiery, blind, whirling and striking on all sides at once.
The attackers had surrounded the canyon during the night, blocked the steep paths leading to the plateau and charged from the end of the valley.
These raids had been going on since the dawn of time. The Variags of Khand carried the palm of terror, merciless to men and cruel to women. Robbery, rape and murder, erected as a principle of honor by the unchanging cycle of plunder and punitive expeditions, had cemented these tribes since they had overcome their rivalries to forge a powerful confederation.
But this time, the victims had perceived a change, an inflection in violence: the heart in rage, the fanatical look... and the standard of the Great Eye at the head of the squadrons.
The poison of faith had crept into the ranks of the Variag raiders. The word of the Red Eye, whose Lord had once again risen in Mordor to dominate the universe and lead men.
Les cris des pauvres gens retentirent, mêlés au tonnerre des sabots et au fracas des tentes qui s'effondraient sous la charge impitoyable. Les quelques braves qui parvinrent à saisir leurs armes et s'en extirper, furent massacrés. Les Variags envahirent l'oasis avec une brutalité expéditive acquise au fil des siècles de guerre, avec un raffinement dans la violence élevé au rang d'art de vivre.
The cries of the poor people resounded, mingled with the thunder of hooves and the crash of tents collapsing under the pitiless load. The few brave men who managed to seize their weapons and extricate themselves from them were massacred. The Variags invaded the oasis with an expeditious brutality acquired over centuries of war, with a refinement in violence elevated to the rank of a way of life.
With a reel of his sword, Taïnyota mowed down a rider who was passing near him and then began to free the occupants of the tent that the brigand had just knocked down. In the fury and dust he held a council with the head of the family:
– "What stronghold can be held against these criminals? "
– "The sanctuary: there we can barricade ourselves!"
– "Let us go and establish a defence there!"
Under the leadership of the Oloye, the young men took from the dying the weapons they could find, and the group set off, here repelling a marauder, their arms already laden with booty, or there picking up a survivor, her legs encumbered with children.
But a troop of horsemen took notice of the group of fugitives on open ground. The brigands lined up and charged. A massacre was coming. Suddenly a brown flame intercepted the leading rider: a stallion, rearing up, gave the captain a blow with his forehead hoof. The swordsman fell, killed instantly. His companions, both to avenge their leader and to appropriate such a magnificent steed, turned away from the survivors to seize this new booty.
The thoroughbred had not been harnessed and was struggling furiously. A reckless man who jumped on his back found himself catapulted into a cactus hedge. Two others were dismounted and trampled mercilessly.
– "Farasi! Run! Go back down the valley! " ordered Taïnyota, joining the gesture to the injunction.
The stallion, uttering a powerful neigh, as if addressed to his master, threw a kick, shattering the helmet and skull of a large Variag who was manoeuvring two horses to immobilize him. He threw himself into the clouds of dust, dragging the raiders after him.
The troop of fugitives gathered again and went on their way.
At last the basin of the sacred well appeared in the smoke. The knight seized a piece of broken spear, stuck in the body of a woman, and charged a horseman busy unsealing the chryselephantine statue of the Young Goddess. The brigand noticed his adversary too late: he lacked momentum and scope. The spear pierced him under the armpit, a flood of blood gushed out and the man collapsed beard first at the feet of another statue of the Goddess, the one that welcomes the dead into its bosom.
The group of fugitives reached the entrance of the sanctuary. The Oloye ordered the evacuation of non-combatants to the inner courtyards, had stones searched for to barricade the entrance and posted bowmen at the openings. With Taïnyota, they set about closing the doors, arching their anger in the effort.
But the Variags had cleared the way on the esplanade and reached the steps of the sanctuary. They jumped out and rushed to the door, scimitar in hand.
The age-old asylum, the nourishing womb of the Goddess, was about to be invested, the earthenware broken, the sacred veil torn to shreds. Warriors would be disemboweled, women raped, youngsters taken into slavery. And the wounded oasis, annexed by the vassal of Mordor, would sport the Red Eye, a new stage in the inexorable expansion.
Taïnyota and the Oloye came out to interfere. In the swirls of blinding dust, with the bitter taste of steel in their mouths, they exported the price of blood on anyone who approached.
Dozens of survivors replaced them behind the doors. The enormous leaves closed, heavy and slow, moved by pairs of slender arms, rather made to perform rituals. The door of the sanctuary was never closed, that was not its function. The Goddess forced her nature.
At last the first door was sealed. The heroes who guarded the entrance were summoned.
But they were too closely fought.
The eyes of the Oloye and Taïnyota met. Without a word, the two warriors understood each other: the refugees had to be saved. The nomad slipped between the doors and braced himself to close the last door, while the knight slashed limbs and crushed heads that dared to confront him.
The assault was suspended for a moment: Taïnyota was alone now, his opponents weighing their chances.
Then the soldiers rushed forward, in disorder, with the pride and cowardice peculiar to troops of plunderers.
Supported from time to time by an arrow aimed at his enemies from the openings of the shrine, Taïnyota resisted for a long time. One assailant after another tried to bring down the champion, paying for his attempt with his life. A hecatomb of brigands lay in a bloody semicircle around the knight, who stood before the high door.
But the Cadir of the Variags happened to pass by with his close guard. He was gathering his troops but realized the failure of his attack. The surprise should have swept everything away. Instead, an impregnable square without a war machine had barricaded itself and phalanxes armed with spears were organizing themselves in the village, higher up in the gorge. He had lost too many men. The situation was no longer safe. They had to flee with the booty. But first...
.oOo.
The enclosures had been broken, the horses and dromedaries taken away, the goats pushed before the brigands. A few nomads and inhabitants of the oasis, advanced in chains, destined for a life of slavery.
The brigands had left as quickly as they had come, leaving behind a landscape of desolation, but an unconquered sanctuary where hope would endure and an implacable hatred for the Great Eye had grown.
The soles of his feet were nothing more than a crust mixing his blood and sand. Taïnyota, his hands shackled, was pulled by the Cadir of the Variags himself.
– "You have cost us dearly, Stranger! By the Great Eye, two dozen warriors slaughtered! But what does it matter? You'll bring me much more! And I will savour your agony for the greater glory of the Eye that never sleeps! "
.oOo.
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